Peaceful Mornings
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: To KCS, the Walking Canon and a good friend, here's something to make you smile.


To KCS, a good chum who brings life into the Sherlock Holmes stories, and knows a great deal about that deep sort of friendship, and displays it often.

A rather ordinary dawn rose in the east, usual with its pale light reflected off of the morning fog that rose above the rooftops and crept into Doctor Watson's bedroom across his floor.

The good Doctor in question lay in his bed in peaceful slumber, his hazel eyes lost beneath lids heavy with sleep, his hair standing up in ends that would never be seen anywhere but in his room, his left hand tucked under his chin and the pillow, snoring softly.

221b Baker street was quiet and serene and there was no movement or disruption save for Mrs. Hudson preparing the breakfast downstairs.

Well…that and the quiet, steady footsteps coming up the stairs to Watson's bedroom.

They stopped just outside, blocking what light came through the crack, pausing as though in contemplation.

Then, just as ponderously, an unseen handle turned the knob and the door swung inward on silent hinges.

Sherlock Holmes, perfectly arrayed in full attire, complete with cravat and neat hair, entered the room silently and at once his sharp gray eyes fell upon his comrade in the bed.

He watched him for a moment, studying his peaceful slumber as he might have studied a scuff from a shoe or a stain on a gentleman's coat, or the face of an interesting client.

At last he crossed the room (which was considerably neater than his) and approached the bed, reaching out to gently shake Watson's shoulder.

The Doctor responded at once, though somewhat sluggishly, sighing and after shifting in his sleep, settling even deeper into his covers.

Holmes frowned, his brow furrowed in thought, and once again he shook his friend's shoulder.

"Watson."

The Doctor stirred and settled back again with a murmur.

Another shake, rougher than the last.

"Watson."

The Doctor grunted, but made no move this time.

Holmes let out a frustrated sigh, wondering why the his flatmate had not included heavy sleeper in his list of bad habits.

He peered about the room in a quest for inspiration…and almost at once his eyes locked on an object.

Holmes smiled, and seized with a sudden sense of mischief he tiptoed to the nightstand and lifted the heavy water pitcher.

Mrs. Hudson was polishing the hall mirror when she heard it, a sudden and hair-raising shout from up the stairs, followed by several heavy thumps.

She flinched and jumped, dropping the bottle of polish onto the table. She clutched the stained cloth to her chest and peered in alarm up at the other levels of her home.

Raised voices sounded, and she heard what might have been colorful language followed by rapid footsteps.

She could only watch in dumb-struck amazement as Mr. Holmes came hurtling down the steps, and flew towards the door, not even bothering to pick up his hat or stick.

"Mr. Holmes!" Gasped the poor landlady, "What on earth!?"

"Not now Mrs. Hudson!" the Detective called, already outside on the steps and hailing for a cab.

Mrs. Hudson turned as there were more footsteps, these ones the uneven gait of the Doctor.

He stumbled into view, still securing the sash of his dressing gown, hazel eyes blazing and face flushed as he glared at the Detective.

Holmes let out a little yelp and fairly dove into his cab, which tore away from the house into traffic.

Watson stood scowling darkly after it, breathing heavily through his nose, his mustache seeming to visibly bristle.

Only then did Mrs. Hudson notice that the Doctor was dripping weat, his usually light hair dark and slick with moisture, the upper half of his nightgown soaked through.

She could not think of a single thing to say and could only stare at him in pity and puzzlement as he sighed and gritted his teeth slightly.

At last he turned to her.

"Mrs. Hudson, I shall need you to launder my bedclothes for me."

She nodded and he thanked her, turning and stomping his way back up the steps, muttering under his breath.

It was another dawn, just as ordinary as the last, and the morning light illuminated the rooms of 221b Baker street.

Dr. Watson made his way down the stairs, pulling on his jacket as he did, and yawning still, wishing that he did not have an early appointment so that he could enjoy the morning in bed.

The sitting room was empty when he came down, which was just as well after yesterday's incident, though the lingering aroma of Holmes' pipe tobacco and the still burning coals in the hearth indicated that Holmes had been in here late last night.

Watson snorted, chances were he had never even gone to bed and even now was traversing the streets for his contact.

The good Doctor brightened slightly as he noticed the breakfast that Mrs. Hudson had set out for him. Marvelous woman, she was perhaps the most resourceful and insightful people he had ever met.

He seated himself, taking the newspaper (which Holmes had not yet had a chance to destroy) and began to fill his plate with eggs and sausages, listening to the early morning cries of vendors and passing cabs that drifted in from the street.

He paused, after a few delectable bites and set down the paper with a frown as another sound reached his ears.

Snoring.

He looked round and saw that Holmes' bedroom door was slightly open…and the sound most assuredly originated from there…he could just make out the figure of his friend upon the narrow bed, lost beneath the white sheets, the covers kicked back as usual.

Watson paused, considering this new development, and looked again at the breakfast before him.

A smile lit his face as he set down his fork, got to his feet, and lifted the freshly –squeezed pitcher of orange juice.


End file.
